


Holy Fuck

by PengyChan, Senora_Luna



Series: Fake Priest AU [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Art, Catholicism, Dubious Ethics, First Time, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Improper use of anointing oil, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, NSFW Art, Past Abuse, Priests, Religious Guilt, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senora_Luna/pseuds/Senora_Luna
Summary: This was happening. He was here.[The missing sex scene between chapter 14 and 15 of Nuestra Iglesia, which no one asked for but we wrote anyway.]
Relationships: Ernesto De La Cruz/Original Character(s)
Series: Fake Priest AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551400
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	Holy Fuck

**Author's Note:**

> We got nothing to say in our defense.
> 
> Art is by Senora_Luna.

This was happening. He was here. 

Father John Johnson had to reiterate it in his mind, lest his own frenzied thoughts convinced him that Father Ernest in his room at nearly midnight was only another dream. He didn’t wish to question it again, allow any voice of doubt or any testing of wills, or he would lose his nerve entirely. Besides, from the strange - oddly amused, he would dare say - smile Father Ernest wore, it didn’t seem the man had come to any sort of realization that he should not violate his vows this way. The burden laid on him alone to either back out of the experiment or proceed. Someone was going to have to speak - _he_ was going to have to speak because it dawned on him he was practically holding his breath. 

“I meditated the most efficient means to preserve as much of our modesty and dignity possible during this… sin,” he muttered. “If you simply turn about, kneel on the bed, lift your clothing, we should hopefully conclude within a brief few minutes and escape with… as much… _discretion_ we can during something so unclean.” 

Now when he had rehearsed this plan in his head, and then aloud to the wall, it had seemed so very logical and precise. However the _look_ Father Ernest was giving him suggested he had spoken in English or said something just physically impossible. Had he gotten it wrong? Truth be told his intimate details of sodomy came from limited sources; quickly passed sights in busy city allyways, piecing a visual picture of confessional details, and some faded, black and white prints of old vulgar vases in history books of the pagan Greeks. 

Unaware of his thoughts, Ernesto kept staring for several moments. Oh Jesus Christ he _really_ thought Ernesto was going to let him top, didn’t he? If not entirely taken aback by the _nerve_ of his, Ernesto might have laughed. The situation as a whole was slightly surreal, truth be told - there he was, about to fuck the insufferable white priest - but that absolutely took the cake. 

A _few brief minutes,_ he said. Well, of course it would be a very short matter if he let the gringo lead; then he would be done and Ernesto would not. That idiota failed to grasp was that he hadn’t bothered to get there for _a few short minutes._

Well, no trouble. He was about to let that be known.

“If you think I’m letting you anywhere near my ass while you don’t have the first clue of what you’re doing, you’re very much mistaken,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m the one with prior experience here. So, _you_ kneel on the bed.”

Fine, maybe that wasn't the most charming he'd ever been, but Padre Juan had a way to get under his skin. Figuratively. Whether he would ever allow that to happen in a literal sense, it remained to be seen.

“And allow you to-?” Juan’s face burned an even deeper shade than Ernesto had ever seen. “Oh no, _no_ , I have read the, er- you know- the… texts on sodomy and it is the more _mature_ man, the _elder,_ the _wiser_ , who is meant to _lead_ the _act._ ” He underlined each point with a gesture of the hand holding the candle, and gestured at the cot behind him. Lengthy statements when it was obvious he could hardly be much older. “And do watch your language there’s no reason for us to be crude about this. Besides I had gathered you hardly know much more than I!”

All right, fine, Ernesto thought. Fuck him, and not in the way he'd been intending to.

"Well. Since you're so old and wise, then you can certainly sort this out on your own," he said, and turned to the door. Amazing, how quickly he’d manage to piss him off. Almost a new record.

John watched him take a few steps, holding his breath. There it was, an out. Every chance to let this end without his own courage failing him. But then- how would he ever know? How could he fix this miserable state so he was no longer going around, maddened with repugnant fantasies distracting him from duties, like some deranged pagan? 

He’d been a proper priest for six years now, and never in all his time had he found leading a mass so distracting, or prayer so hypocritical when his mind was stuffed with thoughts about his fellow Father. How much longer until it became so unbearable the church learned he was slipping and cast him out? 

“Wait,” he mustered. “I wasn’t… seeking to offend you I do recognize you are…” And all he tried to hide reared itself forward in the volume his voice fell. “Doing me a great favor.” Another swallow, a gulp of his pride. “I am extremely out of my depth here and- and incredibly nervous.”

Ernesto paused, and turned slowly. He could see it plain as day now, the fear on Padre Juan's face, born of desperate hope and great terror of the pits of Hell. Was that bullshit about being his elder and more experienced an attempt at hiding all that? Of course it was. He could see that now.

Had he been more self-aware, Ernesto might have thought he knew something about hiding fear and doubts behind a thick layer of bluster and forced confidence - but he wasn't self-aware enough, and he did not think of that. What he _did_ think was that, for the entire thing to go anywhere, Juan really needed to relax. He would probably be tight as a coiled spring otherwise, making sex pretty difficult for both. 

Ernesto had no desire to make that night… anything at all like the nights in the barracks. So he drew in a long breath, and turned fully to face him. "Then let me lead. I know what I'm doing."

For the first time, the unrelenting pair seemed to reach a decision where one surrendered without a migraine-inducing battle. John’s white flag came in a forced heavy exhale. 

“...So be it. How do you believe we should… go on then?” For such a self-assured leader of sermons, stumbling over words like this was so forgein and humiliating. 

And ah, what a chance that was for Ernesto - shoving him in the role of pupil for once, with him as the teacher of far more enjoyable lessons than the _proper way_ to hold hosts during the Holy Communion. He held back a smile that would have been more of a grin, and nodded. Time to take charge. "Put the candle on the nightstand."

“The candle, of course, I wouldn’t dream of shaming us-” John startled, and swiftly blew it out.

Ah. That was… not what he had in mind. "... Juan." Ernesto's voice rang out through near-complete darkness. "I can't see a _thing_."

“Oh good, good. I worried the moonlight would be too bright--” 

"I told you to put it down, not to blow it out. Do you have any matches?" Ernesto spoke slowly, chasing away the mental image of his hand hitting the back of Juan's head, repeatedly. It was tempting, but hard to achieve while unable to see anything.

“Ah, _Ernest_ ,” The gringo had the audacity to punctuate his ‘correct’ form of names in response to his own being said in Spanish. “You’re not… proposing we look upon each other’s bare forms in the light?” 

"You can shut your eyes. I need to be able to see what I'm doing," Ernesto muttered. Truth be told he would probably be able to get things done in the dark with some patience, but with that last remark on his name good old Juan had used up all his extra rations of patience for the night.

“Ab- absolutely not!” the usually authoritative retort came out like a choke on bad wine. “We must be able to look upon each other in the future following this night with...with purity and without desire and if we see each other then…” he only realized the hole he was digging himself into once he’d said too much. 

Listen to him going, Ernesto thought, like he wasn’t struggling to even look at him as things were already. He smiled. "Ah, but is this not meant to test you?" Ernesto asked, sounding just a _little_ smug. He stepped closer, blindly. Now that, Juan could not argue. 

“Test me, sí, but not ruin the purity of our relationship.” 

“ _‘To the pure all things are pure’._ ” Ernesto couldn’t remember the rest of the verse, he only recalled that one because he’d read it over in mass a week ago. He couldn’t remember how it was in Latin either, but he didn’t need to: a simple test of who was more moral was all he needed to win. He took a step forward, now less than an inch away from Juan. Now either he’d admit to being less pure than him, or he’d go grab the matchbox. 

“I’ll...I’ll fetch the matchbox,” the gringo relented, or perhaps searched for an excuse to scutter away. Even in the darkness, one could feel the body heat.

Ah, Ernesto thought, finally talking sense. He stood there in the dark and, as he waited, loosened his collar and began to unbutton the cassock. By the time a match was struck, casting a tremulous light in the room, his chest was bared. The air was a little chilly, but no matter; he’d get a chance to warm up soon enough.

John nearly tripped over his own bare feet when he turned about to the sight. “Oh you’re- uh- why are you… undressing?” he struggled to keep a neutral tone as he his eyes darted around the room like an incensed man, to gaze upon anything but the bare, brown, and clearly… robust body. 

Ernesto shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "What we plan on doing can hardly be achieved with clothes on - and certainly you do not want me to defile the holy cloth by wearing it during the act, do you?" he added, and pushed it off his shoulders. "I was rather surprised you suggested as much earlier."

Realization hit John like a slap. “Sí! We musn’t defile-- _right_ \-- I hadn’t expected you to show up wearing--” he stammered, struggling to not let the novice priest realize he had just remembered protocol better than himself. Not that there was precisely a protocol for… that kind of situation. It was simply not meant to happen. 

But oh God, John was so desperate.

“I’ll just-- give you your privacy, but... I will leave on my shift, it is... not a holy garment.” Then he closed his eyes, as if that would make Ernest’s nudity non-existent. It however didn’t counter the terrible part of himself that, especially below the waist, was _painfully_ eager to see it. 

"Well then, do as you said earlier. Kneel on the bed, and worry of nothing." The smile was audible in Ernesto’s tone. It was like magic. Without a protest, a haughty look, a fuss, or even disapproving frown, Juan complied doing just that. And all this time he’d just needed to be naked. Well, that was… good to know. An effective way to shut him up, if not one he could use in public. 

Ernesto reached in a pocket to take a small bottle of anointing oil before discarding his cassock entirely, stepping closer to the bed. It was… almost alluring, seeing Juan like that: on his hands and knees, head bowed, waiting. Of course, that shift was in the way - but it was hardly a problem. 

Sitting behind him, Ernesto placed a hand over his ass through the thin fabric, giving it a firm squeeze.

_“What in all creation!”_

The words jumped from John’s mouth so quickly it sounded like one. In an instant he recognized it was English, and cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “Lo siento, I wasn’t expecting-- you’ll have to warn me.” 

When was the last time he had been touched anywhere forbidden? Boyhood surely, back in a time of innocence. Baths by the maids - and even in childhood he and the other boys knew better than to behave so vulgarly. And since he was cast out, he could only recall the rare hug initiated from the weeping women he comforted in his parish in America. No Mexican had been so grateful _yet._ Ironic, considering their habit of over-touching one another. 

Ernesto blinked, taken aback by the outburst, then chuckled. No man he'd been with had reacted like that to a simple touch, let alone in the army. It probably would have had the same effect regardless of who touched him, but Ernesto still found it… quite flattering. "Ah, my apologies. I will be careful." He placed his hand back on the gringo's rear, but didn't squeeze again. "I will pull up the shift now. All right?"

Oh God, getting warnings was only going to make it worse, wasn’t it? Just hearing him say it made John’s pulse quicken to a degree he could nearly hear it in his own ears. A fine layer of sweat coated his palms, making the coarse, nun-knit blanket beneath him damp. 

“Of course, of course, anything you deem necessary to get it over with. On second thought you needn’t… tell me everything.” 

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, and slowly pulled up the shift, exposing his rear. Somehow, it was… even whiter than the rest of him; he supposed it had likely never never been touched by the sun. He ran a hand over it and ah, it was _soft_. Even the hair was fine and blonde, reminding him of a baby chick - decidedly not a very seductive thing to point out, so he decided not to.

The gringo kept quiet, probably with every ounce of willpower, but then there was a strange humming sound. Almost like music, except that Padre Juan truly disliked secular music. "No?"

“No, or I will.. lose my nerve.” 

"Very well," Ernesto said, hand still on his ass. He stroked his thumb over it, and licked his lips. Ah, Padre Juan was far from a beauty, but the sight made his breath quicken all the same, his cock beginning to stir. It had been a while since he’d last had a man. Dribbling some of the anointing oil in his hand, he slid his hand between his thighs, brushing it against his testicles. "Spread your legs a little."

“Why is your hand… wet?” John forced out the words like he was speaking against a gag. Which he nearly was, the amount his embarrassment was making every part of his body tense and lock, along with his subconscious attempt to bury his face in his hanging nightgown.

 _A hand was on his genitals._

A hand that was not his. Dear God in Heaven. 

“Oil. To make it easier,” Ernesto said, choosing to omit the fact it was _anointing_ oil, not something he’d just grabbed from the kitchen. Still, something about the tenseness of Juan’s back made him pause. He fell silent for a few moments and, for the first time, he hesitated. 

“... It’s not bound to work. We can stop.”

“You…” A note of surprise entered Juan’s voice. A few seconds passed, then a firmer press to his words slipped in his voice. “... I have to try. Even if you believe a remote possibility, I need a solution. I’m...desperate,” he admitted. 

It _was_ a possibility, Ernesto supposed; back in the barracks, many men had wanted nothing more to do with the-- arrangement many of them had, after the first try. Ernesto didn’t precisely plan on leaving Padre Juan bleeding - he made it tempting but not _like that,_ something in him balked at the prospect - but perhaps, once he did try, he would find he no longer desired it. That would be a bit of a blow to Ernesto’s pride, but he could handle that. Probably.

“... All right.” He pushed his thighs apart, just a little. And after all, if it kept the gringo here, whether he enjoyed it or not-- there would be no harm done right? He was clearly the type of man who could do with a release of pent-up tension. 

John resisted asking what the point of his actions were. Why a hand was rubbing oil, why his legs had to be parted to such a vulgar, showy position, and _oh_ there was his answer. One of the fingers was there-- that untouchable, horrid little hole, that acted like a trigger making John’s head snap up. 

“Ah-- must you touch-- that’s rather unsanitary, do you have to soil your hand with… with...” his mind spun so quickly he could barely keep his words in order. 

“Just getting you ready.” Ernesto’s voice came out a little huskier than usual. “I know what I’m doing.” The other hand, the one without oil on it, came up to rub the small of his back, trying to soothe him. He _was_ wound up like the spring of a clock, of course, just like expected.

Apparently there were more steps to this than ‘bend over and be done with it’ as John had bargained. So the man braced himself, closed his eyes and attempted to think of something else. God? No, too much guilt. Texas? Too sorrowful. Nature? God’s wonders- whoops, back to God again. Cigarettes. There, that was something to focus on. He could smoke as soon as this was over and calm down.

But the moment he began to allow his body even a little distraction, something worse crept in. Something even more forgein than the impure touches. It started as a tingle, like the faintest tremble of the smallest harp string, a pleasant noise so soft it could be easily overlooked unless you were holding the instrument and felt the reverberations through it. Something was being triggered from the finger circling his hole, and it was strange enough to distract him until he felt Ernesto’s finger begin to press against it. His mind stilled. There was guilt, there was horror, there was terror, there was unholy desire for _more._ “Is that-- are you-- are we doing the deed?” 

“Getting you ready.” That reassuring tone again, the hand still rubbing the small of his back - then the oiled finger pressed in a bit more, just enough to breach.

“You mean-- your finger...?” he choked out. It was important to remember he was a virgin, or Ernesto would be so royally offended. Honestly, only a virgin could mistake a finger for his cock. He was much thicker than that, thank you so very much. 

“Sí. Don’t worry.”

“Easier said than done, there’s something _in_ -” No no, John mustn't allow himself to go into details or he may very well faint from the shock of all this. Instead he lifted one shaky arm to clutch the dangling gold cross around his neck. “C-carry on. I should like to hurry this along.” 

_You really shouldn’t,_ Ernesto thought, _unless you really want to explain to doctor Sanchéz how come you showed at his door with a torn-up asshole._

But saying any of that aloud would have probably made Padre Juan faint, so he bit his tongue and pushed in deeper instead - slowly, because damn was he tight. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought that he could lose a finger if he just clenched. His other hand kept rubbing the small of his back, trying to get him to loosen up. 

“Hmmmph...,” Another humming, muffled, noise from John, his face reddening as he found himself sink further to his elbows when a sudden ripple ran up his body from something odd the finger had stroked. The string of a harp again - but someone had just taken their whole damn hand and twanged a large string roughly making the entire instrument shake. He didn’t dare speak, it chanced a weird sound leaping out, or even worse acknowledging that whatever was happening right now was _not,_ as expected, hoped and planned, miserably painful.

Quite the contrary, it sent shivers of pleasure up his spine - something that was not at all lost to Ernesto, because the gringo was… definitely not as good an actor as himself. There was no way he was simply clenching his ass around the finger for a show. 

“Surely it is ready,” Juan suddenly exclaimed, the words forced out from clenched teeth. 

Ernesto frowned, more than slightly offended. His cock may be on the shorter side, all right, but it was _thick,_ had the idiota not noticed that?

“I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, and hooked his finger, pressing down on a spot that, if he was not mistaken-- ah, yes, now _that_ moan was music to his ears. The next moment there was a muffled wince, the gringo biting something to stifle the possibility of another one. Of course. He’d gathered that Americans hate kissing, making noise, and this was all that rolled into a convenience package. 

John had never experienced anything like it, and from the strange jolt it sent to his own _member,_ it was undeniably a sinful experience. It no longer hung anxiously between his legs but twitched upward, straight, a state he had awoken in horror many mornings to find it in - and thus then prayed away. 

Good God, he could not pray _now._

“Is- isn’t ready?” Even his voice had changed, lowering to a strange, husky, tone he’d never heard from himself before. 

"You need to try and relax," Ernesto said, and suddenly shifted - from sitting behind him to kneeling, and reached between his thighs with his free hand, palming at his cock. To no surprise whatsoever, he found him hard. "You're being more impatient than I expected."

“I, I just- just want to be cured is all, t-that is my impatience and lack of virtue-” The combined hands were making John’s words slur. Even from the light brushes he could feel warmth, a callous texture - all these things seeming to hit several strings at once making whatever was happening in him even louder. “Por favor, I-- I just want to get on with it-- you needn’t-- needn’t caress me like this.” 

Ah, right. Ernesto pulled back his hand, and hesitated a moment before sliding the finger out, nearly all the way, then back in - and once sure there was no pain, he pulled back some to press in another finger.

"You know, that's-- normal. As in, to be expected. You being hard." _Who wouldn't want me?_ "I- have the same, uh, issue,” he added. Because damn he was hard, cock throbbing each time he allowed himself to pause and _really_ look at the man before him, on his hands and knees, shift bunched up around his waist. He was no beauty but ah, he was soft - pudgy, more accurately - and smelled good, and he couldn't remember the last time a man had been so turned on by his touch alone.

_“I understand basic human anatomy, and the sexual response in human beings!”_

It was delightfully vindicating that Juan’s attempt at a sharp, snobbish remark came out in what sounded like a drunken man’s slur, barely stitching each word together. “If you have the- the correct issue then do what you must with your member.” 

Ah, he certainly had a way to make this _fun_ didn’t he? Ernesto might have rolled his eyes, if not for the fact he was so amusing to hear. He pushed in the entire second finger, slowly, and shifted to lean across his back, reaching around him to run a hand across his chest. His cock brushed against Juan's thigh, hot and hard, tip already wet enough to smear pre-come across his ridiculously white skin. He could feel the scars on his back too, rougher than the rest on him, against his chest.

"Soon," he murmured against his ear.

“Why the delay?” John mustered. _That_ was it wasn’t it? The hot _flesh_ against his leg. He couldn’t discern which emotion started a quiver in his thighs at the realization. “I am not afraid of pain, I welcome it, it will cure me.” 

"And get you on the position of having to explain the médico how come you have a torn asshole." Ernesto's voice was a little dry now. "I told you, I know what I'm doing." He scissored his fingers briefly, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Up close he smelled ever nicer, enough to forget how annoying he was, of incense and old wood and anointing oils. The only out of place smell was of faint tobacco too, which he could only assume came from a parishioner. It was… a world away from everything the barracks had been.

And it seemed the scissoring quelled any further protest from John. His shoulder blades rose as his back curled higher, his body struggling to react to whatever new feeling was being rushed through up his spine in high violent waves now. Without much realization he sank further into the bed-gripping the pillow to bite and hide his feverish, heated, face. Against his palm, the crucifix nearly punctured the skin from his grip. 

“I can’t-- _por favor_ I can’t handle that, can-- can we _get on_ with it?” It was an agonized groan a more experienced man would recognize as his own need for relief. In John’s case, it was his hope to replace this building sensation with something more muted. 

It wasn't every day someone begged Ernesto to fuck him. As in, it had happened, but not as often as he felt it ought to have. All right, maybe it wasn't _precisely_ the fuck he was begging for, but he could twist the truth a bit. The gringo wanted him to get on with it, and get on with it he would. So he lifted himself, pulled out his fingers, dribbled more oil on his erection, and gripped his hips.

For the second, and surely not the last time that night, John was heavily humbled. The instant he could feel Ernest’s member pressed against his body, well, he felt quite foolish for having assumed his finger before was it. It felt terribly large, like its girth would tear him apart, and to his dismay his attentive member seemed to hop in delight at the prospect despite his more logical fears. _Disgusting_ he thought of himself, trying his best to think on a prayer for this situation but Latin was so muddled in his mind at the moment.

It took every ounce of Ernesto's willpower not to just shove himself in. He could have-- he asked for it-- but at the same time, he worried he might cause tearing that might require medical attention. That would be inconvenient, and besides… besides, he didn't want that. No such care was taken on the barracks, either, and Ernesto didn't _wish_ this to feel anything like it did those nights, much like he never wanted to return there. 

So, when he began prodding the entrance, he did so very, _very_ slowly.

“D-deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet--” The whisper was a soft hissing sound from between Juan’s clenched teeth. Well people had called out to God before in bed with Ernesto but this was… new. Ernesto bit back a retort - _“you can call me Ernesto”_ \- before he gripped his hips a little tighter. 

Christ, _everything_ about that man was smooth and soft, and it was _warm,_ and the temptation to sink in and take his pleasure was hard to resist. He honestly couldn’t recall this much time ever passing between getting in someone’s bed and actually getting his cock in. Yet, despite being painfully hard, he forced himself to go slowly. A long breath and slow, careful push - letting only the very tip slip inside. He tilted his hips in circular movements, to ease it in. 

The Latin trailed off to soft wincing breaths. The discomfort was there now, just as John had wished for. He could ignore how his member still twitched with some unanswered want, so long as he focused on the tension in his rear - the stretching that felt impossible to accommodate, oh God what was happening. That is, until Ernesto’s slow movements seemed to give way to a pop of pressure, something settling inside forcing John’s head up with a sharp gasp.

“Is that-- have we… we done it?” _Because there, I’m not enjoying it, experiment over, I’m cured._

Ernesto stilled, still gripping his hips, breathing fast. The air felt scorching hot, his skin covered in sweat. Only the head was in, and the pressure, squeezing _,_ was almost too much. Christ he was _tight._ Tight enough to make him worry that maybe it would be too much-- he wasn’t ready-- he’d rip something, there would be blood, and he didn’t _want_ there to be blood. 

“Just got started, Juan.”

“You’re… you sound as though you’ve run a mile.” Now he was far too exasperated to snap ‘it’s John’, but in just enough of a state to recognize _that._ And recognize _that_ seemed to be something his rebellious sex enjoyed. 

_Because you’re being such a damn tease_ would probably not be the correct answer to give, especially as Juan clearly did not mean to be one and likely would need to be explained what Ernesto meant by that, which might result in a heart attack he’d very much rather avoid. However convenient Juan’s sudden and entirely natural death would be to him, at the moment he’d try to keep himself safe without having to kill anybody else. Even the passing thought brought forth invasive images. 

The memory of Alberto’s death - the unprotected back of his head, the gunshot and the spray of blood, the thump as the body fell on the sand beneath the beating sun and the terrified noise his horse had made - made it back in his mind for a brief moment, but Ernesto did his best to chase it away.

And there was no better distraction, he’d learned, than what he was currently in the process of doing. So he licked his lips and pulled back before he leaned in, tilting his hips, carefully pushing back in and then deeper, just another fraction.

“How… how much further?” Of course Juan would be this demanding in bed even without knowing what was even happening. Ernesto rolled his eyes.

“What, are you that eager?”

“I should like to cured, sí, I waited years for this.” Wait that came out wrong. “A _cure,_ I mean, not-- I, ah-- just-- go on then.” Snapping back was difficult when his own breath felt like he was paying for it by the second. 

Ah, Ernesto thought, fuck this guy. Literally - still giving him orders, even like _this._ Very well, he could follow orders; he’d been trained to do just that, after all, in the army. He wanted to be fucked, and so he _would be._

Ernesto scowled and almost, _almost_ shoved in. But… ah, this was still so different, no matter how infuriating the gringo still managed to get even with his face into the pillow and legs spread for him. He was softer - _this_ was softer - and Ernesto found he couldn’t manage to be deliberately harsh. He paused a moment, pulled back, and then he did push back in… but slowly, to avoid tearing. 

“Aren’t-- aren’t you moving terribly slow?” John muttered, oblivious of the great favor he was doing him. 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake_ . “Do you really _want_ to explain doctor Sanchéz how come your asshole is torn and infection is setting in?” The noise of alarm Juan made almost compensated for how annoying he was being.

“I… no. I didn’t consider… c-carry on,” he managed.

Ah, he finally got it, the second or _third_ time he said it. And it looked like he could no longer bring himself to lecture him about cursing, which was a nice plus. Now that was… better, Ernesto supposed. He dared push a little further, rotating his hips - listening closely for any sound of discomfort or pain. Because really, if he _did_ make him bleed, then Juan may not be the only one to find himself having to answer uncomfortable questions.

Truth be told John was so used to treating any sort of pain or blood as a symptom of serving God in the best and most selfless way, he wouldn’t have recognized the issue initially. It was so personal - all his feelings were - Ernest would be the last to know, last he’d tell, if any of this affair caused him terrible pain, even if their bodies were conjoined. 

Yet suddenly, when he was lost in his thoughts, there was _no_ pain. There was that strange ripple of a feeling again from the way Ernest’s hips tilted to that… _place_ in him. The side facing his stomach. That was more alarming than pain; John sucked in his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping it would pass to the tight, sore, discomfort again. 

Except it did not. It was tight, he was so full, but as Ernest leaned down across his back, pushed deeper, there was no pain.

“I… I believe you need to move faster,” he managed in a gasp. 

“Stop telling me what to do,” Ernesto groaned against his ear, pushing a little deeper. A hand reached to stroke his chest, the other down his stomach, between his thighs, just brushing his cock. 

“I- Yo-” John began in English and then slurred into Spanish, which deteriorated into a breathy syllable. The combination of sensations was making him light headed; he desperately searched in the back of his mind for pain, or even just discomfort, but didn't find any. This tingling was like someone was playing an instrument directly in his ear, drowning out all other sensation. 

Another push, a groan - Christ that felt good, so tight around him, and Juan finally being _quiet_ was one hell of a perk. And he took nearly all of him, ah, maybe he _was_ ready. Another groan, and Ernesto rolled his hips, taking a hold of Juan’s cock to stroke it. Full mast, of course he is, who could possibly resist him?

John nearly suffocated himself burying his face in the pillow; the heat and sounds were threatening to spill out of his mouth if he didn’t remain muffled. He couldn’t understand how someone could remain conscious through this. What was happening inside him and across his member threatened to overtake him like the most instant and powerful wine. His own chest was heaving heavily as he’d noticed in Ernest’s breath. God he shouldn’t have lit that candle again, he could only imagine the miserable state his face would be if Ernest moved around him and saw it. 

How could his cursed organ be so erect right now? Every part of this was humiliating - something must be wrong, he must not be doing it right. “A-are you sure, this is, right?” he had to press his words carefully, or else they would come out in gasps and groans. 

All right, Ernesto thought, he’d had it with his constant questioning. Time to shut him up, he thought, and rocked against him, squeezing his cock at the same time - ah, the tip was already wet with precum from it. His other hand wandered up his chest, found a nipple, and pinched. 

That did it, a groan slipped out of the gringo in an undeniable proof of Ernesto’s skill. Around his cock he could feel Juan’s body clench, pulse, build toward a peak. Not another word came out of his heavily accented Spanish questioning Ernesto’s efforts. And the only prayer he heard was _‘Oh God’_. Instead he could focus on just how satisfying it was to have finally found a way to shut him up. 

Not that shutting him up was the _only_ satisfying part. Because oh it felt good, how warm he was around him, beneath him - how good he smelled, too. Ernesto couldn’t get enough of that. He leaned across his back, letting go of his cock to run both hands across his chest. This… he wouldn’t be doing this in the barracks, because _that_ was only about getting quick relief and anything too gentle would be an insult to the manhood of both men involved. It would have gotten him odd looks at best, a punch to the face at worst. 

And none of the soldiers had felt that nice to the touch, either, all roughened skin and taut bodies, all of them with lice and reeking of sweat after a day marching under the sun. The gringo was _soft,_ even the hair on his chest was so fine. Ernesto pressed further into him - Christ that felt good, pleasure beginning to pool in his loins - and nestled his face against the crook of Juan’s neck, breathing fast. 

“Lie down,” he rasped, letting his weight push him down slowly. “On your stomach.”

To his absolute surprise, the man complied. No question, no fuss, just a tentative pause before reclining entirely. He was clearly waiting, hoping, this would be the change he was looking for. Ah, that was… better. Ernesto grinned a little, holding himself up on his arms. Juan’s skin was so flushed, he was almost a bright pink all over. “You took it all,” he rasped. “You sure you were a virgin?”

“O-of course,” Padre Juan sputtered indignantly. He seemed so mortally offended by the suggestion, it made Ernesto chuckle.

“Just kidding, just kidding.” He leaned down on him, breathing fast, face pressed against his neck, and began to slowly tilt his hips - gentle circular movements as opposed to proper thrusting, because oh he suspected he wouldn’t last long otherwise.

And neither would the gringo, apparently. 

“P-pause-- por favor, wait--” Juan choked out suddenly, his entire form trembling beneath Ernesto’s weight. He had pulled his head and shoulders up as much as he could. Ernesto immediately stilled, waiting. Shit, had he been too careless-- was there tearing-- was he hurt?

For a few agonizing seconds Juan didn’t speak at all, then managed some anxious words. “So-something… something’s happening to me, I’m… I’m quivering, and-- and it feels like something is going t-to overtake me...”

Oh, Ernesto thought. He breathed out a sigh of relief. “It’s all right,” he muttered, and pushed himself up, still deep within him. He rested a hand over his shuddering back. “It’s all right.”

“I-...” John swallowed. He wanted words, an explanation, a discussion. But for once in his life, words failed him in every language he knew. Everything in his mind was cloudy; the only thing that was clear was how much his sex throbbed with a miserable coiled tension - and how Ernest’s pause made the tension nearly acute pain. 

Right now the younger priest’s reassurance, something he would gauff at in other situations, was enough to sedate his worry. So with surrender, he gave a shaky nod, dropping his chin to the pillow once more. There was more panting, moans, little _‘ah, ah, ah’_ leaving him with each puff of breath to be muffled into the pillow - all very, very satisfying. 

“That’s it, relax,” Ernesto panted, and began rocking his hips again, slowly. It was almost a power trip getting him to listen like this. Because it was obvious when just those slight movements brought him to a surprised, harsh, climax - ass clenching his cock so divinely, a man who hadn’t yet learned how to suppress the symptoms of orgasms to keep face. 

John had never experienced anything like it, all his _nocturnal emissions_ had been just that. Unconscious, muted by sleep. Awake it felt like something had just swept over his entire body, then rushed out of him, spilling out all the anxiety, tensions, pain of the evening into a small puddle between his stomach and the mattress. It took him several delayed seconds of consciousness to recognize he’d slurred out some mixture of an English exclamation and the Lord’s name. He laid there shivering, lips flushed, wet, and the crucifix now pressed against his rushing heart. In all the confusion he had let go of it. 

Well, that had been quick. Ernesto was rather flattered, but held back a remark and kept moving instead, so slowly, building up a slow, thorough pace. Juan was done, but _he_ was not and ah, he-- deserved some release for a job well done, no? Yes, he decided, he did. He rested on John's back again, arms sneaking around him to pull him close, and kept going. It was-- heavenly, the heat and the tightness and the softness beneath him. 

But with his returning clarity, came more remarks from what sounded like the closest to drunk he would ever hear Juan.

“I… have we done it… is it over?” 

For a man who prided himself on manners, what an _awful_ imposition during a sexual encounter. Ernesto rolled his eyes, and on a whim bit gently into his shoulder - not enough to leave a mark, no, not like _back there._ “No,” he panted, and tilted his hips a little harder. “Not yet.”

“Did… did you just _bite_ me?!” The gringo managed to sound somewhat outraged despite how he was struggling to quell his pants. Baiting him to argue wasn’t going over very well, considering Ernesto no longer needed to be so cautious if he’d already gotten him off. Clearly the man wasn’t in pain anymore. 

Well then, he could be… a tad more vigorous, no? Ernesto smiled against his skin and instead of replying, he pulled out some to thrust back in - a little harder. 

John nearly bit his tongue. Sensation rocketed up his back, intoxicating, like a bullet. After that paroxysm his entire body had become so vulnerable, his mental wall to _hate this_ lost underneath a sea of pleasant sensations swirling his words and thoughts at the moment. If he didn’t remain preoccupied with staying quiet he’d release some vulgar sound he’d heard in alleyways before. 

That didn’t make any less obvious to Ernesto how he enjoyed though, especially from how his breaths hitched, back arched, thighs lifted, and ass pulsed for further stimulation against his cock. Now that was more than a _little_ flattering, a sudden thought entering his mind - could he make him come again? 

_One way to find out._  
Ernesto drew back only a little, stilled - ah, was it just him or Juan had instinctively tried to lift his hips to keep him in - and he thrust in again, a sudden jolt of his hips, pushing him further into the mattress.

“Jesus H. Christ!” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before he could stop them - and oh, the immediate regret. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was something he hadn’t done since he was a boy. The embarrassment didn’t have time to settle in, he was too lost in it, his body now in control and struggling to get closer, to get _more_ from Ernest. 

“Hmm? What was that?” Ernesto gasped out against his neck, moving again - sharper thrusts, deep, tilting his hips and searching for the right spot, the right angle. At that point, getting a moan out of him was a matter of pride.

“Nothing- uh- nada...” The gringo slurred back, shaking his head. Nice try. Another thrust, one deliberate into the spot he’d found with his fingers, and Juan threw back his head, making a noise through his clenched teeth like a man who had found the peace of divine ecstasy. There were no more complaints out of him. Only the subtle, trying to be discreet, movements of his body to let Ernesto thrust more smoothly. 

And ah, he wasn’t the only one in bliss, not anymore. It felt good, everything felt good - the clean sheets and the quietness of the room only broken by their panting and the faint slap of flesh on flesh, how soft he was and how good he smelled and Ernesto tried to draw it out, moving his hips in deep, languid strokes. He was close - Christ so close - but he could hold back, he could make it last. The wooden frame creaked, so softly, and he could see the gringo’s fingers were coiled into his pillow so tight they turned red. 

“Oh _God,”_ _What is happening._ That was the only concise thought John could mange. Sin or cure was far from his mind right now. Moments of embarrassment would creep in, when he felt the sweat on his back, heard the soft clap of their bodies meeting, panting in his ear - but none of it made enough information in his mind to muster stopping. The only thing that jerked any awareness to his mind was when he felt Ernest’s arm slip under his thighs-and with shocking strength rip his hips up taunt to his groin. It knocked a gasp out of him. Since Ernest nearly strangled him for endangering that foolish townswoman, he had forgotten just how _strong_ he was. 

“ _D-don’t yank me!_ ” But he said it in the midst of a moan-and in English at that, rendering it useless as an attempt to try and find some superiority. He looked and felt wild. Hair sticking to his face and out at every angle. Perspiration was coating his skin, making his nightgown stick against his flesh. Was this Hell? It felt too good to be Hell, even if it was hot enough. 

A part of Ernesto’s brain wondered what the hell had he just said, but it was a really tiny part. The rest was much too taken with how good it felt, how _open_ to him the gringo was now. He grasped his ass, spreading his cheeks to give himself better access-- deeper into that warmth that clenched around him -- and canted his hips, again and again, a barrage of sharp thrusts and mind-numbing pleasure, panting and gasping and refusing to slow down.

Christ to see Padre Juan like this - spread like this for him, moaning for him, moving against him - the haughtiness smacked out of him, the superior tone gone along with any intelligible words. Triumph could only be celebrated with a trophy, which came in the form of Juan’s shift. He was suddenly nearly tangling himself in it trying to pull it off - or just over his face. 

Ernesto decided the former and assisted by pulling it forward and then tossing it off the bed before he could change his mind. Now he could watch his entire body go pink as he fucked him properly. He was so close but he could hold on, just a little more, just a little more...

His efforts were rewarded. Juan shuddered against him once more and let out half a harsh groan - ‘Oh _God’_ \- before he buried his face in the pillow. This time he didn’t fight it and nearly trembled out of Ernesto’s grasp from the convulsions. But oh no, he would not let him go that easily, and kept his hips locked even as their position shifted to flat on the bed. 

The sense of triumph rushed to his head, and Ernesto gave a sound that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so out of breath, so busy fucking him though his orgasm, chasing his own. 

John’s mind was too blank to be ashamed-nothing existed anymore. With the whip there was only pain, a numbness of the mind, a quieting peace that let his body lead his soul a moment. This… was the opposite. Delicious, flowing, explosive, flashes in his mind that quieted every worry he’d ever had or would for that night. 

“Ah-- fuck--” Ernesto moaned through his teeth. It was too much, the way he clenched around him, how he trembled, the sounds that left him - his thrusts became quicker, more erratic, pleasure coiling in his loins and it was only a matter of moments. He pressed in deep, dropped his head, and he came with a long groan. 

It was the quietest the room had ever been with the two of them in it. Each were panting heavily, lost enough to not recognize they now laid atop each other without needing to. The act was done. Polite parting could happen. But it took at least a minute before John finally lifted his head. 

“The...the candle’s too bright.” 

His accent had never sounded thicker, but he was barely aware. All of his rational thoughts were buried under a layer of hazy ecstasy lingering like an inhaled high. It didn’t even occur to him that he should be horrified at the thought he had another man’s seed within him. 

“Nhhh,” was the only response he got. Ernesto was panting on top of him, still in him, boneless and breathless and lost to the world. He couldn’t muster the strength or will to lift himself, let alone the breath to blow the candle. He just wrapped his arms around Juan, leaning his cheek on the back of his shoulder. “Close your eyes,” he finally mumbled. 

In that moment it seemed like a perfectly rational thing to do. John’s body was so light and heavy at once. His anxieties were lost on the ceiling, expelled with the rest of his wit from that second spending. They’d be saying they need to wash, they need to pray, they need to absolve each other, and why was he clinging to him? 

But they weren’t there. Instead the only voice in him decided that closing his very heavy eyelids from the invasive light would add to all the pleasant feelings he felt right now. And that Ernest’s presence was a comfort because, something told him in the back of his mind, these sensations could be so very bad if he was experiencing them by his own self. 

Ernesto felt him relax, and it was… odd, but not unwelcome. No need to get up quickly and mutter nonsense in Latin: he could keep leaning on him, bask in the sensation - _oh so soft_ \- for a while longer. Ernesto nuzzled the crook of his neck, already half-asleep and still dizzy with pleasure, and shut his eyes as well, breathing slowly in his scent.

A few minutes more, neither could argue another few minutes like this could cause any harm. After all the desert is cold at night. That was why they pulled the blanket up, it was just a subconscious need, not an invitation for Ernesto to stay all night. But a few minutes became ten, and washing seemed such a chore right now when it was so cold. The walk back to Ernesto’s room seemed so far, when it was so cold. Without a word to each other they finally agreed wordlessly - a feat only possible without clear-headed sobriety, it seemed - that falling asleep was just the more _logical_ opinion. 

And while he would deny it later on, claiming he’d only chosen not to move in order not to disturb John’s sleep, Ernesto was the first one to let sleep claim him: he closed his eyes and let himself fall into a slumber, lulled by the warmth of a body beneath his own and a steady heartbeat beneath his ear.

Both were in the deepest sleep they’d had in years, fucked to exhaustion, when the candle finally extinguished on its own, melted down to the hilt.


End file.
